


In the Beginning God Created Lavender, Paisley Jumpers and Spankings.

by embalmer56, princessladybug



Series: The Adventures of Baby Sherlock and Daddy Watson. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, American's Writing British Dialect so we suck, Infantilism, John's Jumpers, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sherlock is a Brat, Spanking, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embalmer56/pseuds/embalmer56, https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessladybug/pseuds/princessladybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Investigation Report about army doctors and the boys that love him. Or, the story of how a jumper saved the life of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Beginning God Created Lavender, Paisley Jumpers and Spankings.

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) Stacy (embalmer56) ruined my life and got me all nutz for little Sherlock.  
> 2.) Beta’d  
> 3.) Fic is CURRENTLY non-sexual age play but future chapters with have Schmexylock.  
> 4.) Situation is consensual.  
> 5.) Time line? What timeline?  
> 6.) Emmy is awesome, and Stacy is a pushy little shit.  
> 7.) Loosely linear chapters to follow. Some in relationship to actual canon events.  
> 8.) Comments are the lifeblood of your authors.  
> 9.) This is our funsies. So.... yeah... enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Sherlock moved noiselessly past the landing and up the stairs, avoiding the twelfth step and it's notorious squeak. He tipped his head to listen. He knew John's room was empty, that the doctor was scheduled at the clinic for another few hours, but haste seemed ill advised on this mission. He opened the door slowly, the smell of John, warm cedar and musk, overwhelmed him for a moment before he stepped into the sparsely appointed room. He moved to the closet and pulled open the door. John's trousers, jeans, and shirts hung, neatly pressed; and organized by color Sherlock noted with a snort.

 

He pushed passed these mundane articles to the back of the closet, where several stacks of jumpers where neatly folded.

 

Jumpers were John's thing. The one thing that set John apart from human kind; or so Sherlock thought. John had an unhealthy number of them, some of which were obnoxiously atrocious. Sherlock would be mindful not to take one of those. But which one? There were plenty to pick from, and one would think that you could just grab one and be gone. Not Sherlock. No, he had thought up the precise science to picking the perfect jumper. It could not be red, he hated red. Not the green one with the trees, John had worn that on a day that they had fought. Sherlock poked suspiciously at a lavender paisley jumper, where would an army doctor wear such an abomination?

 

 

His fingers picked through each one carefully. He would make sure to leave the closet in the same shape that he found it, save the jumper that he decided on. Not this one. Not that one. Certainly not the one with the dog on the front.

 

Ah. 

 

He knew it the second that laid his hands on it that it was the one. A simple blue jumper that he remembered John wearing on a day they had breakfast at that one cafe. Sherlock had not wanted to eat, but John ordered him a traditional breakfast just the same. That was the first day that John Watson made Sherlock Holmes do anything, and Sherlock ate every bite of the breakfast, save the tomato, which he gave to John with a wrinkled nose. 

 

Yes...this jumper was the perfect one... 

  

Sherlock tucked the navy material over his shoulder and closed the closet. He stepped towards the door before pausing and glancing at the bed. Sherlock ran his palm over the dark grey duvet covetously before stepping lightly out of John's room, pulling the door closed behind him. He leaned his cheek against the dark fabric as he nimbly took the stairs two at a time, making it back into the flat in seconds. He stood inside the door and hesitated for just a moment before throwing the lock. He knew he should take his pilfered wares to his room. John no longer tried to enter the room after nearly breaking his neck trying to navigate the mess on the floor. 

 

Instead Sherlock threw himself on the sofa and buried his face in the jumper.

 

It was not a familiar soft material on his face like a pillow or a blanket might be. It was course and rough, just like John. 

 

Sherlock scoffed at himself. Leave it him to analyze how a jumper is like his flatmate’s personality.

 

It did not matter, it was only one of the many reasons that it he had wanted to jumper. The material, the smell, the look... everything about it was like having a piece of John Watson with him. And if he maneuvered it just right, it might feel as if he had his check pressed up against John's chest. 

 

Sighing contently, he allowed his body to sink further into the couch as he relaxed. He could not recall the last time he had slept. The caffeine patches that he had been running on were running dry, and his bed was piled high with his boxes full of chemicals for his latest experiment. A yawn passed over his lips. Now that he had John's jumper he could shut his eyes. 

 

Sherlock fell into a deep and dreamless sleep so he didn't hear the front door open; or the slightly limping gait up the steps. 

 

The rattle of the door knob and the muffled curse of his flatmate caused him to stir. The key rattled in the lock briefly before the door was thrown open with more force than was strictly necessary. 

 

John huffed into the room and threw the door closed, rattling the room and pulling Sherlock the rest of the way awake. Despite having his face buried in the jumper he could feel John's eyes on him and considered the merits of pretending to be asleep but discarded this idea as unfeasible. 

"What's this then?" John's voice making it clear he expected an answer.

  

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John had interrupted his perfectly good nap. "What's this then, he asks," Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What does it look like? I'm taking a nap on the settee."

 

He wiggled and squirmed, trying to stretch out his long legs as much as possible. He felt the itchy material of John's jumper and he found his happy place again.

 

"Now, will you please be quiet so I might finish?" Sherlock closed his eyes as he tried to drift back to sleep. 

 

“And what exactly does my jumper have to do with your nap.”  John’s voice, low and dangerous, sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

 

“I need it for an experiment John. Science! You can have whatever’s left of it when I’m finished collecting data.”

 

John took his coat off slowly, placing it carefully on the peg. “Left of it, eh? You wanna tell me how my jumper got from the back of my closet to down here with you for an experimental snuggle?” Sherlock simply hummed into the jumper pressed against his cheek and shrugged a slim shoulder.

 

“So all of those conversations about not going into my room or taking my belongings…” John trailed off.  Sherlock could feel John moving closer to the sofa, his presence seeming to fill the entire room.

 

John could see Sherlock visibly backtracking in his head, even though his eyes were still closed. "I retract my statement then, alter the terms. I will only enter your room and take your belongings when it is detrimental to my work to do otherwise." 

 

"Detrimental to your-" John rubbed his lips together as he looked away from Sherlock. "You don't work, Sherlock. You do bloody experiments on our kitchen table." 

 

Lovely. John was angry. When was John not angry? Sherlock opened an eye to stare at him. John continued to rave on like a lunatic, as Sherlock studied his jumper. He was wearing a brown one today; it matched really well with his sandy blonde hair. It was too bad that Sherlock could not have his head on that one.  He wished he could put his face on that jumper while it was on John's body, instead of the ruddy one he had. 

 

"Are you even listening to me?" John demanded. The only thing that snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts was John crossing his arms over the very object of his attention. 

 

Sherlock blinked, before getting that childish glimmer in his eye. The one that made John go mad. "Yes... right... your belongings are my belongings. That's what you said, right?"

 

“My belongings…yours?” John blustered, causing Sherlock to flinch.

 

John’s face took on an unhealthy hue before he turned and took a few faltering steps from the sofa. He stopped half way to the kitchen, turning quickly to point a finger at Sherlock. “Up with this, I will not put!” And because Sherlock lacked self-preservation, he giggled.

 

John’s face darkened even further before he slowly took a breath, his eyes never leaving the detective sprawled on the sofa. He backed away until the back of his knees bumped into his chair and he sat heavily. “Something has got to give little man, cause this isn’t working for me.”

 

Sherlock blinked at John languidly. “Little man? Have you finally sold the farm then?”

 

“If you insist on behaving like a child, then I’m going to insist on treating you like a child.”

 

“A child?" Sherlock's face twisted sourly. "I am far from a child, John. You are mistaken."

 

"Am I?" John challenged in a ruthless tone. 

 

"Yes!" He was not sure why he shouted at John, but it was a compulsion that he had not been able to control. Sherlock blinked again, but this time at his own outburst.

 

"If this is about the jumper, I will simply put it back," Sherlock finally said after he had regained composure.

 

John sighed loudly, his hand rising to massage his wrinkled brow. "It's not just the jumper, Sherlock."

 

"If you are expecting me to change my lifestyle, you are mad," Sherlock snapped again, rising to his feet. He angrily tossed John the borrowed jumper. He was about to stomp away for dramatic effect, but John caused him delay with two simple words.

 

"Come. Here." 

 

Sherlock paused in his retreat. What did John want? He was interrupting his stomping. 

 

"Now, Sherlock." John added when Sherlock raised his foot again.

 

"What do you want John?" Sherlock rounded about angrily, but he did not move in his flatmate's direction. "You have your jumper. Come off it!" 

 

“You’re the only consulting detective in the world. What’s about to happen should be fairly obvious” John has the audacity to smirk at this.

 

Sherlock could feel his mouth open and close a few times at this, his mind spinning, surly John didn’t mean.

 

“You intend to beat me?” His tone low and incredulous, how dare this sodding little hobbit!

 

“No. I intend to spank you.”

 

“You really have gone round the bend then.”

 

“No. I just intend to give you the attention that you’ve been demanding since the first night we met.”

 

“You’ve come completely unhinged!”

 

“I’m only going to tell you this once more. Come here.” Sherlock glared at him through the fringe of his curls before turning again to stomp out to his room. “I’m warning you, if I have to come get you, you will be the sorriest little man in all of London.” John’s voice was oddly calm and assured.

 

Sherlock glanced around the room quickly. For what purpose, he did not know. Possibly looking for the shortest and most effective escape route. John was an invalid and with his bum leg, surely Sherlock could outrun him. Oh... but distance meant nothing. Sherlock always returned to John in the end, or John found him. Watson had never seemed pleased upon their reuniting, so Sherlock weighed the result in his head. It was much safer to deal with his flatmate now then it would be after he buggered off. 

 

So he sucked in a breath through his nose as he raised his shoulders proudly. He leveled his chin and willed the flush out of his cheeks before looked directly at John, an eyebrow slightly raised. "You intend to do this, then?" 

 

"I do." John was rolling up the sleeves of his jumper.  "Let's get it over with, shall we? No need to fight me. Don't want Mrs. Hudson thinking we're having a domestic." 

 

"John," Sherlock was going to attempt reason now, but the sound of his voice was barely a whisper. He cleared his throat again. "John, you're being unreasonable. I-

 

"Oi!" John finally shouted in his best Captain voice, stopping Sherlock mid-sentence.  The toe-headed solider pointed with one menacing finger at the floor Next to his feet. "One...."

 

Sherlock panicked. John was counting. He tried to figure out in his head how quickly John would get to three. Or did he even count to three? What if he counted to five? Five seconds passed, so the probability of...

 

"Two." 

 

Now he had to pick. Sherlock hated black and white choices. Why would John do this to him? He could stand his ground and he and John would wrestle, John being the likely winner being a solider and all. Or he could submit willing. He hated pressure, and his mind nearly burst with the thought of choosing wrong. 

 

"Three."

 

"Coming!" 

 

John's final words had him hopping towards the spot John had pointed at. What had made him do that? Certainly not fear; Sherlock was not afraid of John and a measly spanking. He was afraid of the look in John's eye if he disappointed the man. 

 

He stood slightly to the right of John's chair, hands wringing in front of his belly. Even sitting down John felt larger than life. The blonde stared up at him for a second before firmly grabbing his wrist and pulling him down and across the doctor’s lap. The position was awkward, Sherlock's limbs where too long and he didn't fit properly, which gave him a twinge in his chest that he filed away to think about more closely later. John shifted his dressing gown up his back, exposing his flannel lounge pants. A warm hand rested against his bottom, making him jump. 

 

"Why are we here?" John asked quietly.

 

"Other than the fact that you're an unreasonable clod who..." Sherlock was cut off by a sharp smack to his thigh that made him nearly jump out of John's lap. 

 

"Try again. Why are we here?" John's voice was patient and soothing and despite the sting in his thigh Sherlock felt himself relax a bit.

 

"I went in your room and took your jumper."

 

"Right, took my jump with the intent to destroy it in an experiment." John prodded gently. 

 

Sherlock squirmed at this. He'd never intended to destroy the jumper, but admitting why he really wanted it seemed impossible so he simply hummed his agreement. 

 

"Alright, 25 should do it then, hold tight." And with that John brought his hand down firmly on Sherlock's upturned arse. The detective grunted, once again surprised at the strength of the smaller man. 

 

Sherlock was trying to determine the best way to respond to the surprising pain, but before he could deduce the proper response, the second swat fell. John's very hard hand, fell right on top of where the first one had fallen, and the combined sting of both swats made him gasp out loud. 

 

John smirked and nodded at the fact that he was already eliciting a proper response from the detective. He let his hand fall again, this time on the adjacent cheek. He followed it up with a twin smack that pulled another intake of breath from Sherlock. 

 

The next four swats, delivered to the meat of Sherlock's backside, if you could even say the skinny detective had meat on his bones, made his socked foot jerk involuntarily. 

 

"Keep your feet on the floor," John demanded, and he watched the young man's feet still.

 

Then John did something that caused Sherlock to lose all his composure. He reached down to tug at Sherlock's lounge trousers. John had not been surprised to find Sherlock lacking pants underneath, and he was presented with a slightly pink bum. Sherlock immediately regretted the choice not to wear pants around the flat. 

 

"Wait...John! Stop!" He struggled to right himself and squirm fully off of John's lap. 

 

One of the hands at his waist moved to rub up his back, which worked to slightly calm him and hold him in place. The other moved back to his bottom.

 

"The rest of this spanking is going on your bare bottom Sherlock." John's tone brokered no argument.

 

John resumed spanking in earnst. "Your disrespect for my jumper is a clear reflection of the disrespect that you show everything," John lectured, a look of clear determination on his face. "Not only the things in our flat, but the lack of respect you have for others, me, and yourself...." John was delivering his swats to Sherlock's very sensitive thighs. This was the most important message that he could give the wayward detective; he wanted his words to be heard and felt. 

 

"Your disregard for these things ends now," he told him with no nonsense in his voice. He had been meticulously counting in his head, unlike his the brat over his lap, and he knew there were only five swats he had yet to deliver. John needed to get the message through, so he increased the little strength that he had been holding back and gave them to Sherlock's bouncing pink cheeks in quick succession.

 

Sherlock howled and his feet lifted off the carpet at the sudden exploding pain in his nether region.

 

The suddenly overwhelming sting elicited a surprising response... for both of them. 

 

"S-s-sorry! Daddy! I'm so sorry I took your jumper! I just wanted to..." His voice cracked and Sherlock could not believe that there were tears in his eyes. "...I wanted a cuddle." 

 

John's hand froze mid-swing as he listened to Sherlock sob his apologies. Sherlock froze too, as the enormity of his confession dawned on him. 

 

John recovered first, "Well this wasn't the best way to go about getting cuddles Pet," he said, delivering the final swats. He pulled the sniveling detective up and into his lap, letting the younger man bury his face in John's shoulder. They stayed that way for a several long minutes, John rocking and whispering soft words. Sherlock felt overwrought but strangely at ease this way.

 

"Why didn't you just ask?" John said finally, his voice soft and devoid of judgment. "If you needed cuddles... cuddles from Daddy, why do all this instead of ask?"

 

Sherlock tried to ponder the question, but got caught up savoring the smell of John's jumper. He had forgotten to factor in smell when he had taken the blue jumper this morning, it smelled like the laundry soap, but this... it smelled like John. John after a long day of work. There was a hint of musk from where he had been sweating under his medical coat. The faint smell of hospital, yes there was a word for it, if only Sherlock’s mind would engage. That sick smell that smelled both clean and deadly at the same time. The smell that Sherlock loved the most though was the warm cedar smell of John's aftershave. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his long fingers curling into the soft material. He had to enjoy it... he might not ever get it again.

 

John watched his nostrils flair and knew immediately what Sherlock was doing. He could not help but grin at the curly headed man in his lap. He looked calm and peaceful, a look that only appeared on Sherlock's face when he was solving a murder. "You did not answer, love," John repeated, he brushed a stray curl away from Sherlock's face. "Why not just ask?"

 

"It did not seem sensible, John," Sherlock replied, his eyes shooting open. "It does not seem sensible now."

 

"We're back to John, are we?" Asked the good doctor with a raised eyebrow and a curious grin. 

 

"Of course, why wouldn't we be?" Sherlock retorted as if nothing had passed between them. He boldly attempted to remove himself from Watson's lap, but was pulled back down quickly.

 

"Nothing about our relationship has been or ever will be sensible, Sherlock," John explained, making sure to have tighten his hold around Sherlock lest he tried to escape again. 

 

Sherlock struggled fruitlessly for a moment before sagging in defeat and leaning back into John’s embrace. One of doctor’s arms was around his waist, hand holding his hip firmly, while the other hand rubbed patterns on his back.

"You take good care of me John. I was afraid if I asked for more..." Sherlock trailed off. He clung to John like a limpet, his face buried in the John's shoulder. The brown jumper was much softer than the blue one.

 

"How much more could there be Sherlock? I do all the cooking, shopping, and cleaning. I make sure your clothes are laundered and that we have your favorite soap..." 

 

"I am grateful." Sherlock sniffled.

 

"No you're not." John said, not unkindly, pressing his cheek to Sherlock's forehead. "Little ones aren't supposed to be grateful. You're supposed to expect me to care for you."

 

"So what now?" Sherlock’s voice small but hopeful.

 

"Well...I get to enforce some ground rules," John said, giving Sherlock's overheated bottom a meaningful pat, causing Sherlock to squirm in his lap. "I also get to give the snuggles that I've always wanted to give you," giving the taller man an extra squeeze.

 

"And, if it's alright with you, I get to keep the title I've worked so hard to earn." John said, smiling into Sherlock’s curls.

 

Sherlock pulled his face from John's jumper to stare at him and found nothing but sincerity.

 

"Okay...Daddy." And if Sherlock had any uncertainty before, John's beatific grin cleared it away. 

 


End file.
